


You Can Be the Boss

by aghamora



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Aftercare, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Rough Sex, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 13:51:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9610253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aghamora/pseuds/aghamora
Summary: Laurel doesn’t know what fucked the both of them up this much.All she knows is that she doesn’t want it to stop.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This one goes out to all my Catholic school teachers. Sister Judith, I hope you’re proud of me.
> 
> [This gif](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/3c/ff/1e/3cff1ec5c73cf6c1713d0ffa32d98dda.gif) was a pretty big inspo for this, if you want a visual. And You Can Be the Boss by Lana Del Rey is… a very fitting soundtrack.

It starts how it usually does, this twisted game they play.

There's no particular pre-established ritual to this, no set narrative which they agree on beforehand. No rhyme and increasingly little reason. Rules that grow more nebulous by the hour. Really there’re no rules at all, and there never were but they don’t need them; they feel their way through this territory together, finding their footing intuitively. It all comes so naturally. Maybe _too_ naturally.

Laurel doesn’t know what fucked the both of them up this much. All she knows is that she doesn’t want it to stop.

He’s on the bed, perched at the end, legs spread slightly, stance inviting but bleeding authority, and for a moment all she can do is stare, heart thumping like a caged bird in her chest, breath hitching, cunt damn near dripping. He’s still fully clothed, grey waistcoat and slacks with his sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms, tie loosened, Rolex around his wrist. And he’s watching her, eyes trained on her so intensely it feels almost as if he’s touching her from across the room, that cool, level blue stare.

She’s naked, lingering in the doorway. She’s never felt so naked in her life, with the way he’s watching her, eyes cutting into her; like a hunter eyeing a doe, deciding whether or not to make a move, whether she’ll spook and run if he does.

But she won’t; no, she won’t run and they both know it. She’s done running from the inevitable, from him. From this.

“Gonna stand there all night, princess?”

His voice, deep but teasing, not harsh, not loud. He’s never loud; he’s firm and calm, so deathly calm, commanding. Coaxing, almost; coaxing her to come out, and so she does, stepping closer, and if she’s a doe and he’s a hunter she’s walking straight into his crosshairs, not giving even the most remote echo of a fuck about it.

“No, daddy.”

That _word_. It does something to him, to both of them, and there’s a palpable shift in the air then, once it falls from her lips; a change that makes her shudder, and not entirely from the cold air smoothing itself over her skin. The earth’s atmosphere itself abruptly feels heavier around them, and Frank’s eyes narrow, darken, pupils wide enough to consume the blues of his irises altogether. The word doesn’t catch him off guard; it stopped catching him off guard months ago. It transforms him.

He’s not her boyfriend, now. Not her lover. He’s something else entirely. Something that eludes definition altogether.

“C’mere,” he urges her again, voice low, after she stops in the middle of the room, and pats his thigh with one hand.

She could refuse, be defiant, play games with him and taunt him and flaunt her disobedience, but tonight she’s not particularly in the mood for that, so Laurel complies, her stride bold, as brazen as she dares to be while still retaining some demureness, as is necessitated in this situation. She has to bite back her grin to keep it from showing, as she comes to a stop before Frank at the end of the bed, standing over him and watching as he eyes her naked body, those fields of exposed, gilded flesh in the dim light; the flat plane of her stomach, shaven mound between her thighs, hardened peaks of her nipples. He reaches out, settling his hands on her narrow hips, tugging her closer still. She’s so wet she wonders if he can tell even without checking; if he can smell her like a wolf. He _looks_ like a wolf. Big Bad Wolf and Little Red Riding Hood, that’s what they are, only he isn’t wearing a disguise, any sheep’s clothing to fool her. She knows perfectly well what he is, and what he wants.

“Now,” he begins, “you know what you did, don’t you? I don’t gotta tell you.”

She can feel a jolt in her clit which travels higher, smoldering in her belly, sparking in her brain stem. Swallowing, she nods. “Yes, daddy.”

_No. Yes._ She never talks like this. She’s _nothing_ like this; meek and mild and bashful, blushing, some shrinking violet. She doesn’t come when she’s called, defer to any man. But in this universe, in this role, this character’s body that isn’t her own Laurel feels free of judgement, and there are no rules; she’s free to do whatever she wants. Frank’s not in control, even if he appears to be. She is. She always is and always has been, always will be. She sets the pace, holds the reins. He can act like it’s him, sure.

But when it comes down to it, in the end, it’s always _her._

“Say it,” he tells her, gently, patiently. He’s always so patient with her. “Tell me what you did.”

“It was… bad, I was bad-”

“Uh uh,” he chides. She can see the hard-on pressing against his slacks, demanding both their attention, but Frank hardly seems to care. “Wanna hear you say it.”

“I… touched myself,” she confesses, finally, her voice breathy, higher than usual, flipping up into an almost fluttering register. Her heart feels like it’s trying to smash all her other internal organs to bits. She lowers her eyes; it seems appropriately bashful. “Before you got home.”

“Can’t have that, now can we?” he asks with a smirk, so bone-chillingly calm. He reaches down, cupping her between her legs, and she rises up on her toes with a whimper, and her heart must be accomplishing its goal because her lungs feel pretty damn close to collapsing, stealing her breath away entirely. “You know this isn’t for you. ‘S just for me.”

“I couldn’t wait,” Laurel breathes. “I tried, I just-”

“You come?” he cuts her off, and she nods, and he cups her more firmly, just barely grinding the heel of his hand onto her clit to elicit an answer. “How many times?”

She gulps. “I, um… I don’t know.”

Harder, still. She gasps at the contact, the feeling of his rough hand covering her like a chastity belt; reserving her cunt for him, and only him. There’s no way he can’t feel how impossibly wet she is, though he hasn’t yet remarked on it. How wet she got herself just by looking at him.

How wicked and dirty and _rotten_ she is.

“I think you do.”

“Twice,” she finally manages. Her heartbeat is thudding so loudly she can hardly hear her own voice. “Just… twice.”

“How?”

Harder, again; he’s squeezing her now, applying pressure everywhere other than where she wants it. Specificity is required, in these scenarios, and she was holding out on purpose, waiting to be prompted. There’s a knowing look in Frank’s eyes; a look that crawls up her spine like a centipede with a hundred little legs, making her quiver.

“I…” She feigns shame again, her eyes flitting downward, at his lap, his thighs, his powerful body that could break her in half, if he wanted. She gulps, her throat tightening. “I used my fingers.”

“Just your fingers?” Amusement flashes behind his eyes, as he rocks his hand idly back and forth against her slit, purposely neglecting her clit as if enjoying the way she squirms down onto him, seeking more. He gives her a look of disappointment. “Bet they don’t fill you up half as good as I do. Shoulda waited. Shoulda waited, maybe I woulda fucked you, but now…” He pauses for effect as if considering something, though she knows he’s already made up his mind, knows he did long before this started. “Now, I’m not sure I’m gonna.”

She’s dripping, cunt simmering, coating his hand, spilling down the insides of her thighs, all that baby-smooth skin she’d shaved smooth for him. He isn’t even properly dirty talking her, yet, and already he has her – quite literally – in the palm of his hand. And he’s not going to fuck her. He’s going to make her wait, now. Punish her.

She was bad, after all.

“Can’t just have you makin’ yourself come all the time when I’m not here,” he continues, eyes hungry, downright ravenous. “Only I get to do that, baby, you know that.”

“I do,” she chokes out, eyelids half-fluttering shut. She’s not going to apologize. She doesn’t apologize, doesn’t _beg_. He’s not getting that out of her quite yet. “I know.”

“And now look what you did. Got yourself all wet again.” He makes a faint _tsking_ noise through his teeth, releasing her cunt with an almost audible suctioning sound. “I think we’re gonna have to get you dried out, first.”

She almost asks what he means. Almost.

Because before she can he’s yanking her forward none too gently, manhandling her with just enough roughness to get her attention, keep her still, but not enough to hurt. No, he never hurts her.

Not in any way she doesn’t want him to, that is.

He yanks her forward, turning her over and laying her across his lap, and she lands with a delighted _oof_ , ass in the air, all the wind knocked out of her in one fell swoop. He settles back against the bed, allowing the both of them the support of the mattress underneath, and it’s such a sudden transition that it leaves her reeling, even though Laurel isn’t altogether surprised; she knew this was coming, given that this is usually his punishment of choice. She’s so hot she can’t breathe, the air she draws into her lungs turning to condensation. She’s squirming.

She’s so, so fucking _soaked._

From this position she can’t see Frank’s face, read him, anticipate his movements; she’s completely and wholly at his mercy, taken over his knee. She knows what’s coming, and she wants it. She just wishes it would come _faster_.

She isn’t expecting the first blow when it hits her, not so soon; it makes her jump and hiss, the skin on her ass sizzling with that delicious, intoxicating pain. He doesn’t start gently, ease his way into it, and that’s something she’s always loved about Frank: he doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t have to ask to gauge her comfort level, her threshold for pain; he knows her so well he doesn’t need to, and when that first slap comes it’s relentless, splitting the air with a dull _crack_ like thunder.

She jumps, and whimpers, and Frank reaches over, brushing her hair out of the way, over her shoulder, baring her back and neck to him too, for some unknown reason. His fingertips dance at the nape of her neck for a moment, tracing some indiscernible pattern; to comfort her, she thinks, in his own subtle, silent way, even though this is getting him off possibly even more than it’s getting _her_ off, if the stiffy jabbing into her stomach is any indication. And she doesn’t need comfort. She just needs _more_.

“I didn’t wanna have to do this, y’know,” he informs her – although, yeah, he most definitely fucking _did_. “But you know that pussy’s mine. All mine.”

_Fuck,_ he’s so calm, composed, saying that word like it’s nothing at all, letting it roll off his tongue so easily. He’s almost cooing it to her, and somehow that’s infinitely hotter than it would be if he yelled, growled, spit the words at her. He’s gentle, and he isn’t gentle at all, and there’s something so liberating about handing over all semblance of control to him, right then; she’s always in charge, always looking after everyone, telling everyone what to do. Sometimes she really just wants someone to tell _her_ what to do.

Frank, as it turns out, has no qualms whatsoever about that.

“I know,” she pants, feeling a fresh rush of wetness percolate her cunt. “I… I shouldn’t have, I just-”

“Just what? Got no patience?” he interrupts, and another smack rains down from above, her ass cheeks flaring with pain, stinging, her eyelids falling shut. “It’s a virtue.” He pauses. She can hear the smirk in his voice. “But you’re not very virtuous, are you? Nah. I don’t think you’re virtuous at _all_.”

Under normal circumstances, she'd be telling Frank to shut the fuck up right about now, but that won’t do, will only make him deprive her longer, and her whole body is buzzing, her mind too numb to form any coherent quips. She feels wicked, fucking _ridiculous_ , being taken over his knee, spanked and humiliated. It’s so fucked up and she wouldn’t change it for the world, will never admit how much any of this gets her off even though here, with him, in their own dark little corner of the universe, she has no shame. Neither of them do; they let go of shame ages ago. They freed themselves from that emotion, together.

“Y’know,” Frank’s voice fades back into her consciousness, “you been touchin’ yourself while I’m not here… how do I know you’re not bringin’ other boys back here too? Letting ‘em touch you too?”

“I’m not,” she pants, almost frantic. She shifts on his lap, pressing her thighs together. She can feel her pulse in her clit, thudding like a tiny drum. “I don’t, I’d never-”

“I’d know if you did,” he undertones, voice nearly threatening now, crawling across her skin and pushing goosebumps up from somewhere underneath. His hand dips lower, slips between her legs, feels for her folds, but he doesn’t press his finger inside; he just lets it rest there, at her opening. “I know how tight you are. Know I’m the only one fucking you.”

“I don’t want anyone else, I-” Another smack cuts her off, and she yelps, and feels another veritable flood between her legs. She’s half-sobbing, now. “Just you. Just you, oh _fuck_ -”

Another, quick in succession, hard enough she can feel her skin ripple from the impact. It’s burning, now, her skin red and raw, spreading down to the backs of her thighs, and she can’t pretend it isn’t hurting. She wriggles, trying to get away, inexplicably, though she knows he’d just drag her back onto his lap if she did, hit her harder. Her face is pressed into the sheets, fingers gripping them desperately, balling them up in her fist. Her face is red, flushed as dark as her ass probably is. She’s not going to be able to hold out for much longer. He could get her to come, like this, without hardly touching her, just by spanking her, and when he hits her again she thinks that must be exactly what he intends to do.

“Watch your mouth,” he tells her, and he’s back to that soft, coaxing tone now, cloyingly sweet. Almost saccharine. “Or I’m gonna have to wash it out with soap.”

“I-” she chokes out the word on a sob, but he keeps going, ignoring her.

“But I don’t wanna do that. I wanna be nice. You want me to be nice, princess?”

_Princess_. That nickname does things to her, too, and if she wasn’t dripping before she’s most definitely dripping now, her cunt sloppy, almost embarrassingly so. Princess. His princess, spoiled rotten. He spoils her absolutely rotten. Always.

She nods, wordlessly. She can’t find her voice. All she can do is thrust her ass further in the air, begging for a touch somewhere, anywhere, even if it’s just another blow, and a feverish moan spills from her lips. As soon as it does he slaps her ass again, the hardest hit he’s landed thus far, and she cries out, body tightening, even if the thrumming in her bones has distorted all her reactions, merged pain and pleasure together until there’s no longer a difference between them, each hit like a thrust of his cock into her. Filling her. She feels so empty, cunt tightening around nothing. She’s going to die without him inside her, expire right here on this bed.

“Say it.”

“I do,” she manages to summon the words, from somewhere deep inside herself. “I want you to be nice.”

“Even if you did bring other boys around here…” he continues, his hand pausing to soothe across her flaming, sensitive skin, “you wouldn’t get off. Not like you do with me. My cock’s ruined you, for everyone. Forever.”

He’s probably right, the last few scraps of her rationally-thinking brain tell her. He’s gotten her addicted to him, his body, his cock, never able to go long without shooting him into her veins. He’s ruined her, and not in a bad way; she knows there’s no one like him, no one on the entire fucking planet who understands her desires the way he does, who can read her body with all the skill and mastery of a cartographer. He _knows_ her. He knows her so fucking well and she trusts him. She wouldn’t let him do this if she didn’t.

And Laurel has no goddamn clue how he can talk like that, say those filthy, explicit things, purr them to her like sweet nothings with hardly any effort at all. He’s bad with words in general, but when it comes to sex he might as well be a fucking linguist; he could get her to come just by talking to her. He has, before. He probably will tonight.

“Please-” The word escapes before she can stifle it, choked, mewling. There are tears in her eyes, and she’s so close, the knot of ecstasy between her legs tightening, just needing another blow, another push, another _anything_ to come undone. He wanted this, wanted her to beg, and there’s no point holding out now. “Please, daddy… _please_ -”

She doesn’t beg for anyone. But she begs for him.

It doesn’t have the intended effect. Frank doesn’t give her what she wants, doesn’t slip his hand between her thighs and stroke her to climax, fuck his fingers into her; he just goes still, very, very still, as if some realization has just dawned on him. She can’t see his face, and Laurel doesn’t know what he’s thinking, and she’s about to open her mouth to say something when-

“You gettin’ off on this, princess?”

He knows. He can tell. Of course he can, he knew all along, but she shakes her head, lies through her teeth, unsure what he’ll do if she admits it. “N-no.”

His hand is back between her legs, then, and she’s soaked his fingers within seconds, until they’re syrupy, sticky with her. He wriggles them against her, only millimeters away from her clit, and she twitches, trying to thrust her hips down, take them in, but not having any luck. She’s flopping like a fish on his lap, convulsing, so much so he lays his other hand across her back to still her.

“Yeah you are,” he remarks, and she can hear the grin brightening his tone, lilting it. “You like this.”

“I _don’t_ ,” she insists, again. He chuckles.

“Well then,” Frank says, “if you don't… don’t come.”

His fingers are inching closer, and finally, fucking finally he presses them down onto her clit, buries them between her thighs and goes to work. He strokes the swollen bud back and forth, languidly, his movements lazy, but they’re electric to her, so much and so little, and the jolts merge with the lingering pain in her ass to set her all aflame, from head to toe, engulfing her in a rapidly catching wildfire. She smolders, her blood bubbling, and it pools in her cunt, fast reaching its boiling point, damn near ready to boil over.

He told her not to come. She’s trying not to – but God, _God_ , there’s no fucking way she won’t, like this.

She’s crying out freely now, not trying to stifle the sounds; whimpers and whines and moans and half-sobs, sounds that are barely human; a bitch in heat, some crazed beast, _daddy daddydaddy please oh God please fuck me I need it please_. She can’t keep still, rocking her hips, grasping the sheets in her sweaty palms. Don’t come. Don’t come. But she’s so _close_. He’d told her no. She has to listen to him.

Her _daddy_.

She wants to laugh, and cry, and scream, but most of all she wants to come, and she may be saying some fragments of words, pleas, but they’re not in English. Quite possibly she’s speaking in tongues, in ancient, dead languages she’s never heard, that he’s possessed her like a demon from hell, taken over her soul and drawn them out of her. He always absolutely _wrecks_ her like this, breaks her down to pieces and then reassembles them with careful hands, because he knows how to push her, knows just how far he can get her to go. He knows her limits, and he knows how to get her there, how to be just on the brink of pushing her too far – and she’s there now. She’s going to break. It’s too much.

Too much and not _nearly_ enough.

“Don’t come,” he reminds her, but he doesn’t stop, and he’s pressing a thick finger inside her then, spreading her cunt lips. “You’re not allowed, you hear me?”

“I… I need to, I need it,” she sputters into the sheets, grinding down onto him as he begins a cruel, leisurely pistoning motion with his finger; only one, not enough to fill her, but enough to tease her. “I-”

He lands one final hit on her ass, at that; brutal and stinging, so hard it makes her flinch. And that proves to be her undoing.

Her whole body tightens, all her muscles contracting and crunching together in tandem, pussy locking around his finger, buried up to the knuckle in her as it is. It hurts, it hurts so fucking _bad_ on her raw, burning ass, and it sears, and it’s all she needs; that final push, the fatal blow. It _feels_ fatal, the orgasm that hits her, drops the floor out from underneath her and sends her stomach plummeting down to her ass, like she’s leapt willingly off a cliff, into the unknown, and can do nothing but let herself fall. It feels fatal. _La petite mort._ A little death.

It’s only after she comes down that her foggy brain is able to process the fact that she’s being moved, hauled upright and settled down onto his lap. Her vision is still spinning, and she can’t focus her eyes on him; she can barely sit up, her body still quivering with the aftershocks, her tendons and ligaments all buzzing with one singular chorus of want. She can’t breathe, when he comes into view again, peering at her through narrowed eyes, his cock still forming a dark tent in his slacks. He looks vaguely angry, she thinks; angry she disobeyed him. He’ll punish her again – worse, this time. Her daddy. He could do anything to her he liked.

“Well, well, well,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “Somebody was lyin’ to me all right.”

Her vision keeps slipping out of focus, but she manages to shake her head, lower her eyes. “I’m… I’m sorry, I-”

“If that gets you off, how am I supposed to punish you? Huh?”

“I… I don’t know,” she stammers, and he reaches out, placing his hands on her hips to steady her when he senses her tipping a bit too far backward. She’s still so weak, boneless. She can’t bring herself to care what he’s going to do to her now.

“I guess, if we can’t get you dried out that way…” He drifts off, smirking, pretending to think for a moment. “I’m just gonna have to fuck you.”

Like it’s some kind of _chore_. Laurel half-wants to laugh, but she can’t seem to make her lungs cooperate, so she just stays where she is, wobbling atop him, struggling to steady herself and making a sound like a faint huff. She blinks, and her vision is bleary but she can see Frank going for his belt, slipping it through the loops and tugging it off, then undoing his fly with precise, practiced motions, freeing his cock, drawing it out, gripping it in hand. It makes her squirm, the sight of it; long and thick around, tip gleaming with precome, shaft patterned with veins. Big enough to break her open, split her in half. The sight almost makes her go cross-eyed.

Fucking hell, after that, she’s not sure she can take what he’s about to do to her with _this_.

“Think you can take me, princess?” he goads her, letting her loop her arms around the back of his neck to keep herself in place. “Or am I too big?”

“I just-” She can’t speak. She can hardly fucking breathe; how can he expect her to _speak_. “I don’t… know if I can, again, I-”

He feigns confusion. “You made yourself come before. Don’t wanna come again?”

“It’s… it’s too much, I-”

Frank yanks her closer, suddenly, so roughly she cries out. His eyes are blue flame, and she remembers, for a flicker of a second, what she’d learned in school about blue flame. It’s the hottest.

The most dangerous.

He has her by the hair now, and it’s burning her scalp, scattering little pinpricks of pain across it like needles. There are still tears in her eyes, and they’ve spilled down her cheeks, same as her juices are spilling from her sopping cunt. She feels filthy. Insane. She’s crazy, and he made her this way – or maybe she was never sane to begin with. Maybe _she_ made _him_ this way. Turned him into this.

“You’re gonna come again,” he snarls, all that calm, tranquil demeanor gone from him; replaced by this wolf, barring his teeth, ready to devour her whole. “You’re gonna come as many times as I _say_.”

She trembles, from her head to her toes, a full-bodied shudder battering her. He looks terrifying. He looks like he could hurt her, even though he won’t. It makes her mind snap back into place, allows her a moment of lucidity, of clarity, and she holds his gaze, mouth hanging agape, almost drooling at the sight of him, his cock, what she knows is coming.

“I-” she starts, even though she has no clue what she’s going to say. A sob bubbles up in her chest, and it mixes with a laugh to become some absurd, maniacal sound once it falls from her lips. “I don’t-”

“What? You don’t wanna?” He releases her hair, eases up. The look on his face melts, and he’s back to that same, condescending amusement, his eyes dancing. “Gotta be careful what you wish for then.”

He all but tosses her off of him, turns her around and arranges her on her hands and knees with her beet-red ass tilted up towards him, and she shakes when she realizes when he’s doing, that he’s going to fuck her from behind; Frank doesn’t do this much, hardly at all, because he likes seeing her face, watching her, but apparently he doesn’t give two shits about that tonight. Tenderness is gone. Gentle is gone. All of that sentimental, flowery bullshit has gone out the window, and it happens so fast all Laurel can do is land with a cry of surprise, arching her back, holding her breath, bracing for impact. Bracing for _him_.

He doesn’t make her wait; he wants her fuck her while she’s still sensitive, fuck her with the express purpose of overstimulating her, destroying her, and so within seconds he’s positioned himself between her folds, mounting her. When he fucks into her he nearly bottoms out, and he isn’t gentle, but he isn’t savage either; he knows how hard he can go for her to still be able to come. She might scream, when he enters her, cunt stretching to take him, all of him, every single rock-hard inch. She might sob. She thinks it’s more likely she just gives some kind of faint croak, her vocal cords overworked, all the sound wrung out of them. She tries to keep herself upright, for a moment, as he sets his pace, but quickly, in her half-catatonic state, she just ends up collapsing forward onto her elbows, burying her face into the sheets yet again, face damp with tears and spit and snot.

God, she doesn’t want to, it’s too much, and she _does_. He’s fucking her without mercy, but there’s practice in the way he does it; expertise. He isn’t going to get her to come with sheer brute force, and they both know that. The pleasure that surges through her feels like agony, too much, so fucking much she feels like she’s drowning, her body bowing, back breaking underneath its weight. She’s already come once; she’s too sensitive. It’s too much. It’s going to legitimately fucking _kill_ her.

“I can’t,” she moans, hiccupping. “I… I can’t, I can’t, I can’t come again-”

“You can,” is all he says, his voice strained. He reaches out, bunches her hair up in his fist, yanking it backward just like he knows she likes it, and the moan he elicits from her is tortured, scraping her throat like a blade. “You’re _gonna_.”

He’s right. She’s going to. She feels like an avalanche of a girl, like one rock slipping out of place, then another, then another and another until everything is crumbling out of control, and she’s hurtling helplessly down a mountainside, catastrophic and devastating. It doesn’t take long; maybe a minute, or two or three, and before she knows it she’s coming again, like a punch in the stomach, a kick in the head. It hurts, but it’s not pain at all; he’s tormenting her with pleasure, dragging her under, like a tidal wave. A tsunami. Her cunt grips him in almost panicked, desperate spasms, and before she can even start to entertain the idea of coming down he’s following suit, spilling inside her with something like a roar, a howl; the howl of a wolf staking a claim on his mate, and she takes his come greedily, her cunt milking him for every last drop.

And then it all melts away, the act. It’s gone in seconds.

All at once Frank is moving forward, pulling out and draping himself over her from behind. He takes her hands, lacing their fingers together, kissing them, tugging her up and turning her around and holding her against him, kissing her mouth, as if he can singlehandedly replenish the air in her lungs. She’s damn near comatose, having been fucked into oblivion and back, and can’t find it in herself to return any of his kisses, but Laurel lets him lay her down, turn her over onto her stomach, exposing her ass once more. He lays a path of kisses down her spine like an explorer blazing a trail through uncharted territory, then lets his mouth soothe over her cheeks for a moment, before he disappears into the next room and returns with a bottle of lotion. He coats them with it tenderly, attentively, the soothing citrus alleviating the pain of her abused flesh, and after he’s done he falls down at her side, dropping with a sigh.

She’s still on her stomach, but her face is turned towards him, and he’s curled onto his side, facing her as well, running his hand idly up and down her arm, stopping now and then to play with a stand of her hair. All that roughness, that false persona, that character is gone, and there’s only Frank, dripping with blue-eyed adoration. She never feels more loved than she does, after this; when he cares for her, kisses her and makes it better.  

She’s been in control, all along. She didn’t have to let him do any of that and he knows it, and he’s thanking her, worshipping her. He kisses her like he’s taking Holy Communion from her tongue, drinks her down like wine, like the blood of Christ. He scrawls Scripture onto her skin with his fingertips, moans hymns into her mouth. Consecrates her body and turns her into something holy; transubstantiation between their sheets.

“You all right?” he asks after a moment, eyeing her soaked face, damp with tears and drool and sweat.

He brushes his hand across her cheek, and she hums contently. “Mmm hmm.”

“I didn’t hurt you?”

He did – but not in a bad way, and not in any way she didn’t want him to. That’s what’s immensely freeing about all this, no matter how fucked up it may be; he can hurt her, say awful, twisted things to her, but he understands her enough to know she wants it, knows her limits, knows exactly when to stop and when to keep going. No one else has ever known her like that, given her the freedom to be herself in that way.

She feels like she could do anything, with him. _Be_ anything. She feels like she could fly.

“You did,” she admits, smiling, “but I’m okay. More than okay.”

He grins back, moves in closer, presses his lips to her forehead. He breathes her in and holds her in his lungs, telling her he loves her a million times without a word. It’s not something he needs to say aloud, anymore; it’s an unspoken truth, always hanging in the air between them. It’s something by now they just _know_.

They say it in all sorts of different ways, fucked up as they may be. And there’s no ritual to this, no rhyme or reason or rules, and they don’t need any of that. They never did.

They just need each other. And that’s enough. So, so much more than enough.


End file.
